Beneath Devil's Bridge(42)

“What things?”

“Sort of heavy breathing, snuffles. At first I thought it was a bear, and I quickly pulled up my pants. But then I realized it was . . . it was people having sex.” She swallows. “I inched forward and peered over the berry bushes and ferns, and I . . . I saw a light. They had a little camping light with them. It made a halo. I saw . . .” She clears her throat. “I saw it was Leena. Under . . .” Tears pool in her eyes and begin to leak down her cheeks. She swipes at them. I can barely breathe. Luke is wired.

Quietly he says, “Go on. Who did you see with Leena?”

She makes a strange noise.

“Maddy,” Luke says.

“I . . . I . . . It was Mr. Pelley,” she blurts. Her face goes red. “He was having sex with Leena.”

“Clayton Pelley?” I say.

“You mean the teacher?” Luke says. “Your guidance counselor?”

Maddy’s face goes hotter. She fidgets her hands in her lap. Nods.

“Are you certain?” Luke says. I’m struggling to process. I feel tension pulsing from Luke in waves.

Maddy nods again. And anger swells through me. I don’t trust myself to speak.

“Maddy,” Luke says slowly, his voice deep, “was Clayton Pelley the guy on the log with Leena?”

She nods, her eyes downcast.

“How come you’re the only one who saw who he was?”

“I . . . I needed to pee.” Her voice is soft, small. “And I was in the bushes, right there. I caught them in the beam of my flashlight when I parted the bushes, and he had his hat off. They both looked right at me.”

“Did you tell anyone?” Luke asks.

She nods.

“Who did you tell?”

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“Just tell the truth, Maddy,” I snap.

She swallows. “I told Beth. The other kids also know that the guy on the log was Mr. Pelley. They just didn’t want to tell the cops he was there, because Mr. Pelley . . . he’s nice. He would get into trouble from the school. He was like . . . a friend of the kids. We all told him things.”

My mouth drops open. I glare at my daughter. My own kid. She kept a secret like this?

“He wouldn’t kill her, though,” Maddy says, hysterically now, fear flashing through her eyes. “He would not do that. There’s no way.”

Motive.

It’s lying right there in front of us now. Plain as day. Ripe and fat and ready to burst, and Luke and I are positively shimmering with tension.

Clayton Pelley is just down the hall. He’s in a position of power over all these kids. Good-looking and oh-so-friendly wanna-be-cool Mr. Pelley who is only in his early twenties and thus not much older than some of the seniors at this school.

My daughter begins to shake. And cry harder.

“Maddy,” Luke says calmly, quietly, “do you recognize anything in these photos?” He spreads the photos of the items found along the river.

Maddy sniffs, wipes her nose, and nods. “That’s Beth’s.” She points at the address book. “She was looking for it.”

“How about this locket?” asks Luke.

Her jaw tightens. She refuses to look at me. “I . . . I had one like it.”

“Had?” Luke asks.

“I haven’t seen it in a long time.” She’s silent for several beats. My skin goes hot. “I . . . I always wondered if Leena maybe took it.”

“When and how could she have taken it?” Luke asks.

“She came to our house like maybe a month or more ago. To borrow a book for homework.”

I feel like a cigarette. I haven’t had a smoke in years, but I feel like I need one now.





RACHEL


THEN


Tuesday, November 25, 1997.

Pelley sits on the other side of his desk in his office. Behind him is the window, and outside snow continues to fall heavily. On a bookshelf beside him is a framed photo of his wife, him, and their new baby.

He looks bloodless under his otherwise-tanned complexion. He squeezes his fist repeatedly around a stress ball. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release.

“That firewood really did a number on your hands,” Luke says, watching Clay’s hand squeezing.

“Oh, this ball is for an old sports injury. Physiotherapist recommended it. For tendon lengthening. What can I do for you? Everything go okay with the kids?”

“Well, it’s you we’d like to talk to.” Luke says it calmly, like he wants to discuss a sports game.

Clay’s expression changes. Even though his hand keeps squeezing, a stillness seems to come upon him.

Luke flips through his notebook, as if searching for some notes. “You’re the guidance counselor?” He continues flipping.

“Like I said. Yes. I teach the CAPP classes, and some phys ed.”

“Right. And you mentioned tutoring in a private capacity.”

Clay’s hand stops moving. He says nothing.

Luke glances up. “You have quite the position of trust. Clearly the students—kids—look up to you.”

“Do you have a question, Detective?”

“Yeah . . . On November the fourteenth, between five p.m. and nine p.m., where were you?”